


Les Yeux Bleus Vont Aux Cieux

by ArchangelUnmei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Beheading, Dark fic, Disturbing Themes, French Revolution, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:46:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is wrong with France, and in all his naivete, America is going to find out what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Yeux Bleus Vont Aux Cieux

**Author's Note:**

> Set in roughly 1795 or so.
> 
> Age is never a concrete thing in Hetalia. I imagine America still being pretty young in this, probably 15 or so.

_The Nations whisper to each other.  
"Be careful," they whisper, leaning close together but always looking out, keeping watch.  
"Be careful, he's gone mad."  
They pass the news across borders and down rivers, gossip traveling like a carefully bundled parcel and traded off to the next Nation to pass on.  
"He's mad, he's mad, he's mad..."_

America was excited. So excited, he couldn't sit still (not that this was an unusual occurrence for him). He stood on the prow of the ship, watching eagerly for land to come into view. The journey had been long and difficult, but he didn't care. He was so engulfed in pride, caring only that this would be his very first time stepping on European soil as an independent nation. _He_ had fought, and _he_ had won his freedom, and he wasn't going to let any of those Old World aristocrats forget it. So against the advice of his president he'd come.

Europe was not what he expected, not what he remembered from the times he'd come with England. But, he'd been very young then, and now he was a man, so he told himself that of course it would seem different. It was dirtier than he remembered, the people more solemn.

In a rare moment of insight, America wondered what had been going on in Europe while his concerns were turned to his own land.

They threw a ball for him when he arrived, just the Nations. America felt like he was seven feet tall, he was being treated as an equal at last! This was what he'd wanted, what he'd fought England for, a chance to be his own Nation, independent and adult.

England didn't come, but America wouldn't have wanted him there anyway.

America was so caught up in the glamor, he didn't notice how strained the atmosphere seemed, how carefully the European Nations all spoke to each other, treading delicately for fear of something breaking loose. America was the jarring bright spot in the otherwise dark hall, laughing and drinking champagne and utterly oblivious.

Halfway through the evening, America found himself next to Prussia, watching as France tried to charm a stiffly smiling Belgium into a dance. "Why is France wearing a ribbon around his neck?" America asked unthinkingly, and was too busy watching France to notice the way Prussia's smile froze, how his hand dropped to rest protectively on little Germany's head where the child was leaning sleepily against his brother's leg.

"...It's the French fashion, right now," Prussia said at last, his eyes also on France. "Don't bother him about it."

America blinked and turned to look at Prussia, wondering why he worded his statement that way, but Prussia was busy gathering Germany into his arms and saying something about how it was time for all young Nations to be in bed. He looked over at America when he said that, and America bristled angrily at the implication. Just because he was younger than most of Europe didn't make him a child. He'd just spent the last thirty years proving that. For the moment, France and his strange fashions were driven from his mind.

But as the hours passed and the night grew later he found his eyes drawn back to France. France, with his brocade waistcoat and silk stockings, with his brittle smile and eyes as cold as ice. Something looked wrong about him, something besides the scarlet red ribbon wrapped around his throat, but America couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was, no matter how hard he tried. He'd never been as close to France as he had been with England, but he thought that he knew the other man fairly well, at least. Something was definitely wrong.

And if there was something wrong, than America would do his best to fix it. Starting by doing something to cheer France up, and everyone else too, something to put a smile back on their faces.

He waited until France was deep in conversation with Portugal, not noticing how France's smile looked like the edge of a broken wine glass, or how wary Portugal seemed as France took his hand and laid a kiss along his knuckles. He slid up behind him, and as France straightened and prepared to say something more to Portugal, America reached up, nimble fingers deftly untying the bow at the back of France's neck. A flick of his wrist unwound the ribbon and drew it away, and America grinned, sure that in a few seconds everyone would be laughing at clever, impertinent America daring to steal France's fashion.

But there was no laughter.

Instead, the room fell into an eerie silence, like the silence of a battlefield when all that's left are corpses and ghosts. At first, America didn't realize why, his smile fading into confusion.

There was still a line of red, thin as a trail of ink, running around France's neck.

He glanced at the ribbon in his hand in confusion, still standing behind France's back and unable to see his expression. Portugal's wide eyes, the way he went pale and trembled and hurriedly crossed himself, were the only clues America had that something was very, very wrong before France's shoulders jerked, his spine stiffening as his head tumbled into America's arms.

America caught it on instinct, brain not yet processing what was happening. He felt the weight thunk into his arms, cradled it close, only then looking down.

Blue eyes met blue, France's filming over with a murkiness America had seen in too many patriots' during the war, and he felt a sudden dizziness as his stomach dropped into his toes. He couldn't look away from France's face, from the obvious, hideous fact that _France knew what was happening because he was smirking with his head in America's arms_.

America wanted to drop him, anything, anything to get away, but he felt frozen, his boots glued to the marble floor, his spine replaced with a rigid pole that wouldn't let him look away. He noted dimly, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there wasn't any blood, but that France was rotting as he watched, his eyes sinking and darkening as his cheeks hollowed out, lips twisting in what must be a bitter laugh except that he had no lungs to draw air.

It felt like eternity that America stood there, paralyzed, fighting the urge to throw up, to flee, unable to look away from France's dead, living eyes. No one in the room made a sound, the entire hall paralyzed as surely as America. France's body didn't fall, the bloodless empty neck like a beacon, as though someone had simply frozen it in time as the head left its shoulders.

But it was probably no more than a minute later that Italy broke the silence, giving a little shrieking sob of horror and fleeing to hide behind Hungary's skirts. That seemed to break the spell of silence that hung over the room, and America could feel a scream bubbling up in his own throat.

Then hands appeared in his line of vision, hands that he would know anywhere that roughly plucked France's head out of his arms and turned away. America dropped heavily to his knees, like a puppet with cut strings, still fighting the urge to scream and never stop. England (when did he get here and why did it matter he was here) reached up to put France's severed head back on its neck, holding it steady as Prussia swept the ribbon out of America's numb fingers and wrapped it around France's throat once again.

It was their expressions that America would remember for centuries, once the initial gruesome shock had worn off. They both looked so grim, not a spark of sympathy between them, just steadfastness as they bound up the war wounds of a brother Nation. America would wonder, later, how many times they'd done this sort of thing, putting one another back together, because to America it seemed like Europe was always hopelessly tangled in one war or another.

But for the moment he was starting to shake as Spain crouched beside him and put steadying hands on his shoulders. "This is what happens to us, América," his voice was surprisingly gentle though his expression was as grim as England and Prussia's. America thought if he looked around, the rest of Europe would probably look just as solemn. "We survive, and we move on, though sometimes it takes awhile to heal."

France began to laugh, then, as Prussia tied the ribbon just a little too tight. It was a hoarse, choking sound, could barely be called laughter at all, and it made America shiver although the hall was actually uncomfortably hot.

France turned, his gaze sweeping down to meet America's, his eyes far from the sky blue ocean blue deep waters blue that America remembered. These eyes were pale, cloudy in death and revolution and pain. He smiled, widely, showing off teeth that gleamed like broken bone. There were shadows around his eyes that cosmetics could not quite cover, shadows as deep as a grave.

"Well, Amérique," France's voice was dry and cracked, "Did you doubt what Madame Guillotine could do?" He began to laugh again, and England took firm hold of his arm, face stern as he drew France back and away, not even sparing a glance for America.

 _You wanted to be an independent Nation so much. This is what it means to be one. To face revolution and war and the threat of being torn apart by your government and your people. This is what it means to stand all alone._

America screamed, just to drown out the sound of France's manic laughter. He got to his feet and fled, not caring if it made him look like a child in front of all Europe. All he wanted was to return to his own land, where things made sense.

He did not return to Europe for a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> In the early 1800's it became very fashionable in France to throw 'victim's balls' where only those who had lost relatives to the guillotine could attend. They would tie red ribbons around their necks to symbolize solidarity with those who had lost their heads. This is the 'fashion' that France is supposedly following in this fic.
> 
> America was a firm isolationist for most of the 1800's, so I guess he really didn't return to Europe for a long time. (And no wonder he's scared of ghosts and zombies, good grief I would be too if I'd had France's head in my arms.)
> 
> The title comes from a French nursery rhyme. The entire rhyme is;  
> Les yeux bleus  
> Vont aux cieux.  
> Les yeux gris  
> Vont au paradis.  
> Les yeux verts  
> Vont en enfer.  
> Les yeux noirs  
> Vont au purgatoire.  
> (Blue eyes  
> Go to heaven.  
> Grey eyes  
> Go to paradise.  
> Green eyes  
> Go to hell.  
> Black eyes  
> Go to purgatory.)
> 
> ...Dammit, now I kinda want fanart of France holding his own head. *Shudders*


End file.
